I realised something today. You’ll always be the one leaving too fast, too soon. I’ll always be the one left behind. You’ll want the adventure, the rugged mountains will call you, the swift streams with crystal water will soothe your wanderlust.

But I’ll wait for you. I’ll be there in the old comfy sofa in the corner of my room. The same room in which you promised me that you’d never leave me alone. The same room you walked away from because your spirit couldn’t be bound.

He was a shipwreck. Thunder and lightning flashing over stormy angry grey clouds. Cerulean blue waves crashing on rocky cliffs with full force. He was the result of all hell breaking loose, deafening roars, pandemonium. He was the bomb blasts in war zones, blood stains on T-shirts. The ear-splitting sound of Night screaming at Day for not letting him stay with his lover- that was him. He was chaos, the chasm in souls, the breaks in hearts. He used to make everything uncertain, restless. Just like the ocean. Forever chaotic.

They say you are worthless, you never have and never will deserve my love, and sometimes at night, when the lights are long gone, I wonder if they are right. But in the morning , when I see you again, I don’t remember a single reason for not loving you. They say you are Narcissus, obsessed with your own self, selfish and oblivious to love coming from any other direction. They say I’m Echo, forever pining away for her “perfect” Narcissus, with no real life of her own. They say this story ends with me wasting away without your love and you drowning in your own vices. And I believe them. I know its true. But maybe I want to be Echo, maybe I want you to be Narcissus, just so that history carries our names together, binding them to each other in an inseparable bond. Maybe all I want is to be remembered, but only with you.

***Some characters in this tale might be real but the feelings and events portrayed are PURELY fictional. Okay so maybe ALL the events aren’t fictional, but the feelings DEFINITELY are.***

I walk down the staircase with my friends, wondering where he is. He is supposed to have an extra class after school, so I assume he is in his classroom. But I can’t help but hope to catch a glimpse of him before the four-day holiday we’ll have this weekend. Just then, as I spring down the familiar grey stairs, I see him on the landing walking up, probably going back to his class. He must have gone downstairs to fetch water. As he walks up, neither of us look at each other. His usually arrogant but cheerful face is grave and serious and its obvious that he isn’t making eye-contact on purpose. He passes right by me although there is a lot of space in the wide staircase. My heart beats so loud that I can actually hear it. He is so uncharacteristically silent that it is ridiculous. My friend not-so-subtly clears her throat from behind us. He still keeps his head low, and my eyes are on the ground too, although I can see him from my peripheral vision. And suddenly, just like that, the moment is over. He has reached the above landing and taken the next flight of stairs, while I have proceeded to the one below. He is gone, and I won’t see him for the next four days. But I am left with a realization- although I never meant to, I’ve fallen, and I’ve fallen hard.

I wrote this on Friday evening, and for some reason its kind of freaking me out.

I’ve never been close enough to see the color of your eyes. Even after years of staring at you, admiring you from a distance, I don’t know the color of your eyes. All I know is that its somewhere in between black and brown, obviously, like most people of our race. But its always bugged me, not knowing. I know you have a mole on your right cheek (or was it left, I might have forgotten in a year). I know your hair is pitch black, and you seem to think that spikes look really cool on it. I know you have a scar on your left arm, a little above your wrist, where you’d broken it when you fell off a bicycle. But the color of your eyes? I guess it’ll always remain a mystery to me. Just like you.

My eyes are dark brown, so dark that they almost look black from a distance. My dad has light brown eyes and I wish I’d inherited those instead of this bland color that my mom shares as well. But I guess that’s just me. Bland. Not plain ugly maybe, but not noticeable, never noticeable, in a crowd either. I merge with the walls . I’m part of the furniture. I exist, but sometimes even I forget that I do. I merely observe with these dull brown eyes of mine. They want to say a lot, but end up chickening out and saying pretty useless stuff. Like me.

His eyes are also brown, but the best shade of it. Light brown, and when the sun reflects on them, they look almost like heaven. There have been moments when I’ve just stared into his eyes while he spoke in that carefree, lively way of his. His eyes are warm, inviting- as if inspite of his rude and spoilt-brat-ish behavior, he might actually be a soft person. They make me feel safe, but I’m not fooled. The most attractive things are usually the most dangerous. But I can’t help myself. Those eyes are too hypnotic. They try to entice me with their warmth and invitation and promise of…something like home. Just like him.